


Asunder

by collectiveobsession



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Drunk Alistair, F/M, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Queen Anora - Freeform, Romance, Warden Loghain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-03-04 14:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13367139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collectiveobsession/pseuds/collectiveobsession
Summary: Alistair’s eyes continue to haunt her, though Lyna has not seen him since the Landsmeet four years ago. She was convinced he still lived, but had no way to know how or where…until a letter arrived for her two months ago:He’s in Kirkwall.





	1. Part I

Lyna holds a well-worn sheaf of parchment in her hand as she stares unseeingly across the bare horizon of the sea. She knows the sea spray will soon begin to disintegrate the letter, but finds no energy to slide it back into the pocket hidden in her tunic beneath her breastplate. For now, the parchment is the only shred of hope she has and, though loath to admit it, that is the only thing that grounds her. And so, she continues to gaze at the rolling waves of the Waking Sea as it carries her to Kirkwall, and, hopefully, to him.

“Little cold out ‘ere for this, innit?” Oghren’s gravelly voice penetrates the silence as he cautiously makes his way to join her at the bow of the ship where she has stood vigil for countless hours. He had adamantly argued against joining her on the journey and when she’d conceded his point that dwarves weren’t meant to swim, had taken that as a challenge and grudgingly gone along. It hadn’t been more than her saying “all right” to his initial refusal that had somehow ignited a need to prove her wrong and show up on the morning of the departure, bedroll and axes packed. In the end, she was not surprised by his choice: Oghren often behaved like a hairy, drunken mother hen.

“Quite.” Came her clipped response, fingers absentmindedly rubbing against the rough grain of the letter. She feels the patches in which she already began to wear through the vellum.

“Y’ever gonna sleep?” Oghren questions gruffly, and though Lyna remains glued to the horizon, she hears the familiar clanking of armor as Oghren crosses his arms over his chest. A small warmth blooms in her chest as she registers his concern, hidden beneath feigned annoyance and unintelligible grunting. Drunken mother hen, indeed.

“Eventually,” She acknowledges, finally tearing her gaze away from the endless blue, folding the letter on worn creases and tucking it safely back into her armor. She turns to him, a tight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “I guess elves and dwarves are very similar. I, too, don’t much like sea travel either.”

Oghren nods, satisfied with her answer and tromps away. Unlike her, he hasn’t much left the cabin, hiding his fear of the water with grumblings about the constant assault of sea spray above deck. He isn’t wrong; Lyna has hardly abandoned her post at the bow and has been soaked-through for days now. She’s sure her body is in shock, but finds the cabin too confining. She has been waiting to make this journey for years and cannot ignore the equal excitement and panic she feels at the prospect.

“Mage isn’t leading us on, is he?” Lyna’s spine stiffens, sure that Oghren had taken refuge below deck. Her fingers instinctively twitch towards the knife sheathed at her thigh, but shakes her head at the thought. After all the years since the Blight, she was still ready for a darkspawn to creep up on her. She lets out a quick, quiet sigh and fingers the edge of her breastplate. Finally, she shrugs.

“Could be.”

“He better not be.” Is the grumbled response.

“Hope he’s not.” Lyna says softly, revealing the small thread of faith she feels in this quest. The confession feels uncomfortable and she swallows back the emotion. She looks back at Oghren and finds his brow creased, face set in a frown.

“If he is, he’ll find my axe somewhere he’s _not_ gonna like.” Lyna smiles as Oghren truly takes his leave, mumbling to himself about mages and all of the places an axe would fit perfectly inside one.

~*~*~*~

_She watches the blood dripping from her daggers. There is no amusement, no retribution, no glory. There is only exhaustion as she stares down at the once-proud, once-celebrated warrior kneeling before her in defeat. He is no longer the Hero of River Dane, but rather a paranoid regent, seeing shadows everywhere as he fights to keep his country safe from invisible monsters. She understands this as she is in a similar position, but his obsession makes her quest nigh impossible, especially now on the eve of destruction. She is tired and wants this to be over._

_Lyna expected vengeance, but feels nothing. Alistair’s eyes are on her back, burning, urging her to end the man that ruled them outlaws, watched King Cailan fall, and allowed Duncan and all the other Grey Wardens to perish. But she cannot._

_Riordan stands, diplomatic and excellent at muddying the waters with extra variables. She appreciates the guidance of a senior Warden, but it sets her teeth on edge that he should appear_ now _of all times and try to orchestrate the ending of this Blight as though he has been with them since Ostagar. Logically, she knows he’s been imprisoned for months (due to the weakened man before her) and that that can’t be helped, but his presence has somehow made her life infinitely more difficult as more Warden secrets keep cropping up. Lyna has had it with secrets corrupting nearly every aspect of her life._

_“Let him go through the Joining.”_

_The cogs are turning in her head so fast, certainly the whole Landsmeet must see it. Alistair stands in stony silence. Eamon’s glee at this development is palpable – she tries to ignore the rage boiling in her gut at the thought._

_She hears Alistair’s argument, but cannot meet his eyes, only staring at the dark gaze of the man that’s been chasing her and her companions for months. This was certainly a risk, but what other choice did she have? Three Wardens remained and a mass of darkspawn and an Archdemon to contend with. Four Wardens was better than three, right? She’d been doing nothing but taking risks since Ostagar – every decision she made felt wrong, no matter how right it felt in her heart. The sword hung over her no matter what she did._

_She could not make Alistair king, that much was clear to her. Eamon was convincing enough, but she could not shake the prickling discomfort she felt at the thought of Alistair as his puppet. Lyna strove to ignore the selfishness in the decision – she wanted Alistair for herself. Could her possession of Alistair not be her last act of greed? Her thoughts flash briefly back to the previous night where he’d begged not to be king…she could not deny him his freedom after the difficult life he led up until Duncan found him._

_But making Loghain a Warden…how terrible could that be? A disaster, if she was honest with herself. He’d only hunted her like a dog, but he’d be bound by the oath. If he didn’t survive the Joining, it didn’t matter. If he perished fighting the Archdemon, it didn’t matter. It was one more Warden, and an experienced warrior at that…_

_She agrees to Riordan’s terms and it is like the Void has opened up._

_Alistair rages and she can hardly school her shock at his reaction. She’d never expect this much anger, this much resentment from him (what happened to her sweet shemlen, offering her a rose with a blush up to his ears?) Why couldn’t he see reason? Her blood is pounding in her ears, shamed at the decision, but she implores him to understand. This is not about them, but she feels her heart breaking at his ire, and can barely meet the fury in his gaze. He is disappointed in her and though she has disappointed many people in her life, this is somehow worse than the culmination of all those previous times._

_He offers to take the crown for his own justice, to see Loghain ended once and for all, and now she is disappointed by him. Anora is right, though Lyna would never admit it – this is not about how Alistair feels, regardless of the heinous treason Loghain has committed. This is about the one true purpose of a Warden: to end the Blight. He has allowed his grief to blind him of this oath and Lyna looks back to Anora, unable to face her Warden partner. Alistair has always led with his heart, but conceded to Lyna’s rationale. That same fire, that utter_ righteousness _of Alistair has now become a liability. Bile roils in her stomach, knowing that this Landsmeet cannot end well._

_Lyna allows Anora to rule alone and blatantly ignores Eamon’s shocked gasp, silently pleased with thwarting him after all. Lyna tries desperately to cling to her diplomacy and her ability to make decisions for the good of the whole, but Anora’s triumphant smirk makes Lyna want to drive a dagger into the other woman’s eye socket. She already regrets this decision, but sees no other logical alternative._

_The betrayal on Alistair’s face makes her sick and she tries to get through his incredulity, his heartbreak (“You of all people?”), to get him to understand. She is not choosing Loghain over him; she is choosing a better chance at their survival, their success. He does not listen, even when she’s near begging him to comprehend that yes, he does deserve to be happy, more so than anyone else she’s ever met – but this is much bigger than them. There is an Archdemon and she would rather see Loghain fall to it than Alistair. She would throw Logahin to the dragon in an instant if that gave her the chance to sink her blades into its heart. She could not do the same to Alistair._

_Again, it is everything she has not to gut Anora where she stands as she calls for Alistair’s execution. Lyna attempts cold neutrality, making it clear to Anora that she is no friend of hers, and is granted the boon of Alistair’s life. She hides her relief behind a brittle smile for the blond woman; their eyes meet and Lyna conveys with every fiber of her being that she abhors her._

_He renounces his claim and makes his contempt known. Once Alistair turns back to her, Lyna is halfway to formulating a way to replay this entire scene, but cannot find the words to make him stay. She is sure that his dreams are the same as hers, and she wants nothing more than to make them reality. She watches him walk away, hot tears threatening to spill over, a gaping hole in her chest left in his wake._

~*~*~*~

The Landsmeet occurred nearly four years prior. Lyna can still see the whole scene in her head, and frequently dreams of it, watching it as a spectator observes a tragedy they cannot stop. Alistair’s eyes continue to haunt her, though she has not seen him since. She scoured Denerim after the battle, praying he was not among the wounded or dead, but never found him. Warden duties took precedence and she was once again swept up in the oath she made to protect Thedas at any cost. However, she was convinced he still lived, but had no way to know how or where…until a letter arrived for her two moons ago.

She pats her tunic until she finds the pocket and pulls the letter out again. The cabin is too dim to read (Oghren finally convinced her to rest), so she stumbles through the dark until she finds the wooden steps leading up to the deck.

Lyna cannot remember how long they’ve been on this wretched ship. _Desire’s Demon_ was the fastest civilian ship to grace Amaranthine’s port, but she deems it not fast enough. A combination of her inexperience with sea travel, her anticipation of this journey, and her exhaustion makes her antsy. They’ve been on this blasted ship for nearly three weeks and she cannot wait to be on solid ground again.

She finds that it is nearly dawn when she is able to maneuver her way up the stairs from the cabin and onto the deck. The sun paints the sky a vivid pink, slowly morphing into blazing orange and finally to the pale blue of early morning. The crew changes shifts: bleary-eyed sailors bunk down as their fresh-faced brethren take up their stations. Lyna hears the captain barking orders as the winds begin to shift and pick up. She doesn’t know much about sailing, but hopes the sudden increase in wind speed is in their favor. Lyna dodges the crew going about their routine, finding her usual post at the bow of the ship.

She is only there for a few moments before she hears a set of footsteps approaching her. Years of camaraderie tell her that it is Nathaniel, ready to reprimand her for sleeping so little since they left Vigil’s Keep. Lyna is mostly thankful for the ease in which Nathaniel has grown into her second-in-command, but has always been acutely aware that that title should belong to another. It is the first time since receiving the letter that she thinks this may have been a bad idea. Her hands grip the wooden railing of the ship, nails scraping against the years of brine crusted on the edge.

“Have you ever been to Kirkwall?” Nate’s low tones pierce the stillness of the morning as he takes position beside her, resting his forearms on the railing, hands clasped in front of him. His voice is warm and husky, and she has always found solace in his cool, even-keeled manner of speaking. She supposes it is the noble in him, but prefers to think that he naturally exudes a calm nature.

“No,” She replies, “I’ve never been out of Fereldan.” Nathaniel nods, but does not comment further. He knows she was planning her first trip to Weisshaupt when this letter arrived. He hides his surprise at his commander allowing this personal matter to take precedence over the oath, but cannot find it in his heart to criticize her for it.

“I’ve been a few times with my family, it is….cramped.” She shivers at the description, having had a difficult time the first occasion she visited Denerim. Lyna still had no taste for large cities, having grown up in a small clan, hidden away from human civilization. She ignores the memory of Denerim; nothing good ever came from that city.

“I hope that this is a short trip.” He says, eyes picking up a slowly growing line on the horizon.

“Me too.”

“And I hope that we have not been led astray.” His voice is light, but Lyna understands the implications. Her source will not be a welcome sight to her companions, but she has more important matters than a petty grudge. They are not collecting a bounty; she could care less what he does with his life now. She knows the Warden code, but cannot force anyone to live by it. They both paid their debts to one another before he departed – she has nothing to collect from him.

Her silence indicates that the conversation is over and Nate straightens up, standing fully as he begins to take his leave, accepting the unspoken dismissal. He places a tentative hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently in warning.

“The captain says we should be there by nightfall. Better get some rest.”

Lyna unfolds the letter once more when Nate has left and reads the familiar scrawl:

_He’s in Kirkwall. – A_

She is still awake when they dock at midnight.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is silently impressed at the quickness of this woman, dark-haired with a smudge of red across her nose (blood or rouge?), and tries to think a way out of this odd situation. For all of the fights Oghren had tried to instigate, she is somehow to the one with a blade at her throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review :)

Kirkwall is a nightmare, in every respect of the word. Lyna would rather be knee-deep in darkspawn in the Deep Roads or fighting demons in the Fade than deal with this. The city is too crowded, packed to the gills with unfriendly people who spit in the direction of Fereldans, not to mention _Dalish_ Fereldans. She’s heard at least four rude comments about “ _escaping_ ” the Alienage, and it isn’t even mid-morning. The people are poor, grimy, and hostile. Considering the state of the city itself, Lyna should not be surprised by this; she’s only just made it to Lowtown and every corner she turns in this filthy labyrinth explains why its inhabitants are so aggressive. She cannot wait to return to her keep.

Oghren has already threatened no less than twelve people for their underhanded insults, but Lyna is just trying to find her quarry _without_ a knife between the ribs. These people are clearly different from Fereldans, and she cannot assume she knows whether or not to expect to be attacked. Nathaniel is not much more of a help: his bearing screams nobility and the people of the lower class areas of Kirkwall hate him as much, if not more, than an elf and a dwarf from across the sea.

“Excuse me, do you know a man named Anders?” Her inquiries are fruitless. People will hardly look her in the eye, much less divulge any information to a stranger, no matter how innocent the reasoning. A group of Templars pass her by, stoic and intimidating, and she is glad to have left Velanna back home. She makes sure they are out of sight before continuing her investigation of the wayward mage. She ignores the strange look the knight-captain gives her as he passes and ducks her head to avoid conversation, or, with her luck, arrest.

Lyna side-steps a beggar, vaguely hearing his racist insult towards her and Oghren – easily the hundredth today. Lyna had instructed her companions to forgo Warden armor for their personal sets, hoping to appear less intimidating in the unfamiliar city, but wishes she had donned it to stem the flow of nasty comments. Warden authority would have come in handy and she mentally kicks herself for the mistake. She would take the publicity if only to find her target quicker and without injury.

Lyna turns another corner and curses as she finds herself at the entrance to the Alienage _again_. The blueprints of this city are truly nonsensical. Nathaniel’s previous forays in Kirkwall had not involved the dwellings of the lower class; they are as good as strangers to this chaotic city.

“ _Fenedhis_!” She curses, throwing her hands up in frustration, earning some startled looks from nearby city elves, who eyed her vallaslin with timid interest, “We will never find Anders in this _fucking_ -”

“I suggest that you hold your tongue before I remove it for you.”

Lyna suddenly finds her back against the wall in a corner, nose to nose with a strange woman. Her eyes dart quickly, seeing that Oghren and Nathaniel are in similar quandaries with a white-haired, bare-footed elf and red-haired woman in heavy plate. Lyna has a swift flash of embarrassment at being caught off guard before registering the pinprick of pain at her throat, just below her chin. She is silently impressed at the quickness of this woman, dark-haired with a smudge of red across her nose ( _blood or rouge?_ ), and tries to think a way out of this odd situation. For all of the fights Oghren had tried to instigate, she is somehow to the one with a blade at her throat.

“I’m looking for-“

“I know _who_ you’re looking for,” The woman says sharply, the knife digging a little deeper in Lyna’s neck, “I’m sure the whole city could hear you _shouting_.” Lyna rolls her eyes, unable to hold her tongue.

“I’m Dalish, it’s not like anyone was _listening_ to me.” She bites back, frustrated with Free Marcher attitudes. The woman cocks an eyebrow, as though seeing Lyna for the first time. Lyna is not sure if this is a good or bad development.

“Why are you looking for him?”

“He’s an old friend. He wrote to me.” The woman’s eyes narrow in suspicion and Lyna huffs a breath, patience wearing thin for how maddening this day has been, “I can show you the letter if that’ll help,” Lyna explains, tone just on the border of sardonically sweet, “I’d get it from my armor if I didn’t think you’d slit my throat.”

“Who are you?” The woman questions, the cool steel of the knife still pressing perilously close to Lyna’s pulse point.

“Lyna. I’m Warden-Commander of the Fereldan order of the Grey Wardens.”

“Oh, I’m not giving him back to _you_.” The woman laughs without humor, harsh and biting, shaking her head as she gives a dangerous smile. Lyna frowns, rolling her eyes because of course Anders would make the Wardens sound like the bloody _Templars_.

“I don’t want him, regardless of what he’s said about his…departure. He wrote to me about someone I _am_ looking for, and so _here I am_.” Lyna huffs, distracting the woman long enough to pull the letter from her armor and shoving it in her face. She scans it briefly and stares down at Lyna, ice-blue eyes piercing.

“I’m sure you’ve read his manifesto, you’ll recognize the writing.” Lyna snipes dryly and the woman actually smiles, a bright, laughing thing.

“You’re coming with me,” The woman says, removing the knife and putting in back in its sheath with unreasonable flourish, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. She plucks the staff from her back and twirls it with no less bravado and it is all Lyna has not to roll her eyes; by the woman’s sly grin, she may actually have done so.

“Call me Hawke.”

 ~*~*~*~

Lyna finds herself led to what appears to be an even _grimier_ quarter of the city, if that were even possible. It is all odd staircases and narrow passages and she ignores the bubble of discomfort she feels at being so trapped. Growing up in a traveling clan was all open space: playing between tall trees in the forest or traversing the valleys of the mountains. Lyna has always hated enclosed spaces and Kirkwall is quickly becoming the worst place in all of Thedas. She has a brief flash of the memory of a man – _barely_ a man – helping her through Denerim with a gentle smile. She can almost feel his warm hand on the small of her back, easing her through the panic that builds in her chest at the proximity of it all. Lyna shakes her head and steels herself, following this Hawke towards what she hopes is Anders.

Odd stalls are set up in tight corners and she avoids eye contact at all cost; she winces every time she hears Oghren remark about this “ _Darktown_ ” and readies herself to pull his ass out of another fight. She is not looking to give anyone anymore reason to dislike her, these Free Marchers or this weird little group of outcasts surrounding her and her Wardens. She has shot Oghren more than one look – first quelling, now near murderous – every time she sees him open his mouth. Her goal is to just get out of this _Creator-forsaken_ city alive.

Still, Lyna follows this strange Hawke woman and her companions, hoping that she is not being led into a trap. Everything about this situation screams _trap!_ to her (she has had her fair share of those experiences) and so she remains on-guard at all times. Her shoulders are set for quick access to the daggers strapped to her back and she is sure that Hawke’s elf knows this by how he places himself between her and his leader.

Lyna finds it out of character for Anders to have led her all the way here to kidnap her, but this city is so _wrong_ that she wouldn’t be surprised if it had twisted him into some vengeful mage.

Another short set of stairs and the group leads her to set of two doors. Hawke abruptly turns towards her and the other two Wardens, warning in her stance.

“If this is a trap, I will not hesitate to kill you.” Hawke warns, though her voice it light, sarcastic, even. Lyna gives her a twisted smile.

“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing.” She ignores Nate’s quiet groan of exasperation – her tongue has more often than not warranted him smooth-talking them out of a life or death situation. The other woman merely grins and points her staff at Lyna, equally threatening and friendly.

“I like you.” And she pushes a door open, leading them into what appears to be a makeshift clinic.

It is not the strangest place to see a house of healing sprout from. Lyna is used to getting healed on the battlefield, back at hastily thrown together camps, and even the front gate of Vigil’s Keep after a nasty tussle with bandits on her way home from Amaranthine (Nate had really cursed her for traveling alone that time). There is a certain air of sanctuary to this place and she understands immediately why Anders has chosen it for his clinic. The grates leading up to the surface allow some natural light and the high ceilings draped with massive bolts of linen create a calming atmosphere, something she thought impossible to accomplish in this hectic town, especially in the grimy underbelly. A roaring fireplace gives warmth and comfort to the patients, though the clinic is mostly empty this day.

Lyna immediately recognizes the back of Anders as he bends over a young patient; his ponytailed, sandy hair and golden hoop earring are familiar sights, though he seems thinner now. He speaks to the child in low, soothing tones, and smiles encouragingly. Lyna allows him the moment before barging in, pleased to see that he is at least putting his skills to good work. He had been a very adept healer, and she missed his expertise in her group: Velanna was not quite as reassuring as Anders had been. The young boy hops off of the cot as Anders affectionately pats his head; it is only moments before the boy darts out of the healing house and back into, what Lyna assumes, more trouble.

Anders turns and seems unsurprised to see his fellow Wardens in his clinic. He crosses his arms over his chest, a smug smile on his face.

“Well, well, well,” He saunters over, and Lyna is not sure if his smile is genuine or he is being facetious, “Look what the cat dragged in.” Lyna rolls her eyes, meeting him halfway, the others trailing behind her.

“I assume this is where you arrest me for desertion.” Ah, there it was. _Definitely facetious_.

“If you truly thought that, you wouldn’t have written me.” Lyna bites back, trying to keep her tone neutral, if not friendly. Anders always had a tendency to play victim with her and she often grew tired of walking on eggshells with him. He wore his magic like a martyr’s patch, but Lyna was not raised in prejudice. He raises a brow at her, almost a concession.

“Fair point,” He shrugs, “I didn’t even think you’d come. Thought you’d have more pressing issues back at the keep.”

“This is important.” She says quietly, meeting his gaze with unwavering honesty. He nods, remembering a far away, private confession with her at her most vulnerable. It is from this memory that she knew his letter was not a farce. She grips the parchment that has been in her hand since showing Hawke, ever her anchor.

“What a happy reunion.” Hawke deadpans from somewhere behind Lyna, but neither she nor Anders dignify the comment with a response. Lyna holds his gaze, begging him to understand the gravity of the situation. Absurdly, she quickly glances around the clinic, as though hoping for a surprise reunion.

Anders uncrosses his arms and closes the distance. For a moment, it is only the two of them. He tentatively places his hands on her upper arms, staring down at her with near sympathy. Her brows furrow at this, searching his eyes for explanation.

“I believe that I have found him,” He says slowly, and for once, he seems unsure, “…but I don’t think you’re going to like it.”


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyna is not sure if she is about to have a heart attack, go on a homicidal rampage, or cry. All of the options sound excellent right now. She is rooted to the spot and barely registers Anders’ words of encouragement, of hope.   
> Hope? What hope is there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay :)

Lyna is sure that her brain is about to explode.

Alistair, the town drunk (“There are quite a few of them, so no big deal!” Hawke supplies unhelpfully). Living at a tavern. Unemployed. _Drunk_.

Lyna is not sure if she is about to have a heart attack, go on a homicidal rampage, or cry. All of the options sound excellent right now. She is rooted to the spot and barely registers Anders’ words of encouragement, of hope.

Hope? What _hope_ is there?

She’s just been told the man she’s in love with and has been searching for for _four fucking years_ is Kirkwall’s town drunk (“Everyone here is drunk,” Hawke continues to try to help, but succeeds in making it worse, “Even me.” “ _Hawke_.”). Anders still has his hands on her upper arms, trying to ground her, trying to give comfort in a _terrible_ situation. She barely realizes that she is shaking on the spot.

Suddenly, Lyna is seated on a cot and a hot mug of something is shoved into her shaking hands. Anders kneels in front of her, putting his hands on her knees and implores her to _look at him_. She can barely stand the sympathy in his eyes.

“I mean, this isn’t all bad,” Lyna has never wanted to cut someone’s tongue out more in this moment, but Hawke seems oblivious to social cues, “He could be happily married with children…or dead. Town drunk seems like an upgrade from that.”

The glare Lyna shoots her is nothing less than murderous, but Hawke plows on, undeterred by violence,

“Like I said, being a drunk in Kirkwall is a normal day job.”

“Aaand, that’s enough of that, Hawke. _Thank you_.” Anders says through gritted teeth and Hawke puts her hands up in acquiescence.

Lyna shakes her head, the liquid in her mug sloshing dangerously around the rim. Creators, why won’t her hands stop _moving_?

“I need to go,” She says quickly and stands up, side-stepping Anders, spilling the contents of her mug, but hardly noticing as it drops from her grip. Her hands clench into fists to stop the movement, biting her fingernails into the palms for something to focus on. This pain is much easier to handle. She is quite sure that her heart will fail soon from the sudden and high rate of speed that it is pumping. Her blood feels both boiling hot and freezing cold at the same time and she’s sure that’s a sign of imminent seizure.

“Lyna, stop.” Nathaniel halts her in her escape attempt from the clinic. He stands before her and tightly grasps her shoulders, forcing her to crane her neck up at him. Dimly, she finds offense in just how tall shemlens can grow.

“We came here for a reason, and I see no reason to run back to the keep now,” He says, voice low. Lyna wonders if she should be embarrassed by her reaction, but has no room for this as her anxiety creeps up on her. Nate leans down, lips by her ear, “We will drag him back to Fereldan if we have to.”

A surprised, strangled laugh leaves Lyna’s mouth and she is shocked both by the sound and Nate’s declaration.

“I didn’t come here to kidnap him.” She mumbles, but Hawke has heard her and so begins the near-insensitive word-vomit that Lyna would appreciate in any other situation.

“Kidnap? I _love_ a good kidnapping!”

“We’re not kidnapping anybody.” The red-haired woman says staunchly, crossing her arms.

“Come on now, Aveline. Surely the guard won’t miss the town drunk.” Hawke gives her a brilliant grin to which Aveline rolls her eyes with a groan.

“Count me in!” Oghren pipes in, brandishing his axe. Lyna looks sky-ward, willing the Veil to tear open and suck her in.

“The kidnapping or the drinking?” Fenris, the elf, chimes in dryly, earning a wider smile from Hawke.

“Both!” Oghren chuckles and Lyna wonders if _she_ can tear open the Veil herself.

Nathaniel heaves a great, put-upon sigh and hushes everyone. He frowns at Hawke and Oghren, willing them to be quiet.

“All right, _all right_ ,” He sounds more like an exasperated Keeper and Lyna struggles to keep a smile at bay. Somehow this complete shit situation is almost comical, “We are _not_ kidnapping anyone. We will go this tavern and have a talk with him.” Nate says firmly, looking around at the group, daring them to disagree.

“‘Have a talk’ is code for kidnap him.” Oghren whispers loudly to Hawke, who whoops and claps a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder.

“May the Dread Wolf take me.” Lyna mumbles to herself, slapping a hand over her eyes and then rubbing her temples.

Fenris looks over at her with an almost disinterested expression, “Indeed.”

~*~*~*~

On their way back to Lowtown, Aveline departs with a practiced monologue about not breaking the law. By Aveline’s tone, Lyna is sure that Hawke could repeat this plea verbatim and wonders what kind of person she’s forged an odd acquaintance with. This Hawke is either a repeat felon or some kind of vigilante peace-keeper for the city. Something tells Lyna that Hawke is both. Aveline gives them each a pointed look and returns to the Viscount’s Keep. Lyna is not sure where the guard got the idea that she and her Wardens were troublemakers, but silently agrees that she may not be wrong, especially given the situation.

In Aveline’s stead, they run into another of Hawke’s companions: a blonde dwarf with an impressive crossbow and the apparent ability to spin a story out of anything. The dwarf, Varric, as he grandly introduces himself, is on his way for a pint at the city’s bar, too, and seems happy to follow them. Lyna gets the feeling that this Varric is secretly thrilled at the opportunity to watch this quest unfold and is already writing a novel about it in his head. She wonders if everyone in this city is a friend of Hawke’s.

They stop in front of an unlabeled building, only recognizable by the eerie sign of a man held upside down with a rope around his foot and bag over his head. Lyna is not so much surprised by the gruesome image as she is resigned to the fact that Kirkwall has to be the worst city in all of Thedas.

“Ah, my favorite place in all the Free Marches,” Varric announces with grandeur typically reserved for castles and treasure vaults, “The Hanged Man.”

Suddenly, everyone is staring at her. Lyna shifts uncomfortably, avoiding everyone’s gaze and tries to tamp down the rising panic. What should she say to him? Will he even know it’s her? How drunk _are_ town drunks, usually? Her mind races to every terrible possibility and she feels her resolve slipping. Anders places an encouraging arm around her shoulders, but she knows it is to keep her from bolting like a frightened halla. She swears that facing the Archdemon was easier than this.

“Let’s go.” He says, pushes the door open and leads her into the tavern.

Everything becomes white noise, instantly. Her vision tunnels to a table in the corner of the room and _knows_. Lyna stares, eyes drawn to him as they had after each battle, knowing exactly where he was without thinking about it. She has always been pulled to him as a magnet, as a planet in orbit, ever since the first time she met him. Her mind flashes briefly to a cramped Ostagar, her hunter’s eyes finding her quarry, knowing nothing but a name. He made her laugh in her grief.

Lyna could find him in a crowd of ten thousand people, she is sure of this.

But once she finally _sees_ him, she is disgusted.

Alistair was always tidy, even in the midst of a Blight, he put entirely too much care into grooming his hair and goatee every morning. He made sure his clothes were as clean as they could be while living in hastily thrown together campsites and polished his armor each evening during her watch to keep her company. Alistair had always joked it was the Templar training that made him so well-ordered, but allowed that he might be a bit vain about his hair.

This Alistair was anything but groomed. He’d grown a beard in their time apart; or rather a beard had grown in his neglect. It was scraggily-looking and patchy. His hair had grown to his shoulders and looked as though he had cut it himself with a dull dagger as it was grossly uneven in places. His clothes were the worst, Lyna supposed, dirty with an obscene amount of holes. Had she not known Alistair so well, she could swear she did not know this man.

He drank wine straight from the bottle, and there were several strewn across the table at which he sat. He babbled to himself incoherently and Lyna was sure this is why he drank alone. Other patrons gave his table a wide berth, as people usually do to the town drunk. Absurdly, Lyna wonders how he affords this lifestyle, but banishes the thought as her brain conjures a myriad of atrocious scenarios.

She stops just inside the door and Anders crashes into the back of her, but she stays rooted to the spot. She can’t do this. She absolutely _cannot_ do this. Her heart stutters in her throat and she cannot swallow enough to push it back down.

“How’s my favorite dog lord this beautiful afternoon?” Already, Lyna hates Varric. He strolls in behind her and Anders like he owns the place and it takes a moment for her to realize that he is greeting Alistair. Alistair pays him no mind, waving the dwarf off with an uncoordinated movement as though this is an everyday occurrence.

“Go away, dwarf. I’m not in the mood.” Alistair slurs and Lyna cannot suppress the flutter in her stomach at the sound. Her memory barely did it justice, even garbled as his words are. She feels a cold rivulet of sweat snake its way down her spine beneath her armor.

Varric saunters over to the table and places both hands on the top, leaning eagerly towards Alistair.

“My friend, I think you’re _gonna_ be in the mood.” Apparently used to Varric’s nonsense, Alistair ignores him and takes an impressively long swig from the wine bottle. Varric gives him a wide, shit-eating grin and motions his head towards the door. Alistair, still drinking, lazily flickers his eyes towards the entrance of the tavern.

And then the bottle shatters.

Time freezes and her eyes find his, soft hazel, just as she recalled. She suddenly remembers so many more things with absolute clarity: large, calloused hands wrapping around her waist, desperate kisses after a close battle, and the honey tone of his voice every time he told her he loved her. She’d spent four years frantically hanging onto these recollections to find that she could hardly do him justice. She doesn’t know what to say and it looks like he is struggling to understand how this is possible.

Alistair stands on unsteady feet and utters a soft _Lyna_ before promptly passing out on the floor.

“Get him out of here.” The bartender says gruffly, looking at Varric. His smile widens even further, looks over at Lyna and the rest of the group, and nods.

“You heard the man.”

They don’t take Alistair out of the tavern, _precisely_ , but rather haul him up to the room Varric rents. It takes nearly all of them to do so; Alistair may be unconscious, but he is dead weight and completely unhelpful. Lyna does not help and no one asks her to. She is loath to touch him (they all are since it appears he hasn’t bathed since the Blight) and follows them to Varric’s quarters on unstable feet.

They flop him unceremoniously in one of the hard wooden chairs at the table and Anders finds a cup of unknown liquid and flings it upon the unconscious man. Alistair splutters into awareness, coughing and pushing the water from his eyes. It takes Alistair a moment to reconfigure his senses and looks up at Nathaniel, who stands closest.

“Do I owe you money or something?” He asks slowly, speech still a bit slurred. Nate crosses his arms across his chest and Lyna recognizes the intimidating stance, usually saved for highwaymen and mercs. He shakes his head, eyes hard, but she is sure she’s never seen him this livid.

“No, but you owe _her_ an apology.” Nate tilts his head in Lyna’s direction and she is able to take a deep breath before Alistair focuses his gaze upon her.

His eyes find her and she hears his harsh exhale in the silence of the room. She hardly notices that the group has left her alone with Alistair, but Nate has taken refuge in the corner, ready to intervene on her behalf, if needed.

Alistair stares at her for what feels like hours and she doesn’t know how to interpret this. She wasn’t expecting him to pull her into his arms and weep, and she doesn’t want him to.

“Why are you here?” It’s the most coherent he’s been so far and his sudden sobriety surprises her. He sounds more familiar this way, but the quiet tone is still uncomfortable. She hears the hurt in his voice and tries to remember that _she_ is the one who is supposed to be hurt.

“You – you left.” Lyna’s voice cracks on the first word and she kicks herself for how weak it makes her sound.

“You didn’t want me,” Alistair says and the anger makes the tips of her ears burn. He shakes his head incredulously, “You chose _Loghain_ over me. The man that killed Duncan, who hunted us for _months_. How could you do that to me?”

“I didn’t choose anyone over you-”

“But you did!” He stands suddenly and Lyna’s ears twitch at the quiet unsheathing of a dagger behind her. She knows Nate is ready to step in, but wants to handle this herself. She gives a minute movement of her fingers to call him off, but Alistair notices and rounds on Nate.

“Oh, is this your _new_ boyfriend?” He accuses and the bitterness sounds wrong on his tongue. She can feel her face heating up and the anger is easier to handle than the pain. This is not her Alistair.

“He’s my second in command!” She yells, vaguely motioning behind her to Nate, “Something you would be if you weren’t a bloody idiot!”

“ _I’m_ an idiot? I didn’t choo-”

“I didn’t choose anyone over you!” She’s shaking now and trying desperately to ignore the burning at the corners of her eyes, “Now sit down and listen to me!”

Lyna doesn’t think she’s ever actually screamed at anyone in her life until now. Alistair’s mouth instantly closes and he looks at her as though he doesn’t know her, and maybe he doesn’t. She is different than she was half a decade ago: she is a hardened, war-worn Warden-Commander and she doesn’t have time for this.

After an eternity, he slowly lowers down to sit in the chair, eyes never leaving her face.

“What would Duncan have done? We needed more Wardens, Alistair, my hands were tied,” She says, her voice now a whisper as grapples for control, “I didn’t choose Loghain over you. _You_ chose to leave. It was never my intention to hurt you.

“And I was right,” Her eyes are on her hands now, twisting nervously together, “There’s always a catch to being a Warden, isn’t there? Riordan told us that night that a Warden had to die in order to kill the Archdemon. There were only three of us, but, _Creators_ , I was _so happy_ you weren’t there. I don’t know what I would have done if you had been.” She felt the wetness on her cheeks but couldn’t stop the flow of tears, recalling the utter hopelessness of the situation. She’d been broken-hearted and when Riordan had announced the stipulation, she’d gone numb, happy that Alistair was safe, but calculating her slim odds of living to see him again.

“Loghain took the killing blow, just as he deserved – in death, sacrifice, right?” She gives him a wry, twisted smile and barks out a harsh laugh, “But I can’t find it in myself to regret conscripting him, regardless of what you think. I watched him die…and I cannot allow myself to wonder if that could have been you instead.”

She meets his eyes finally, gaze hard, daring him to challenge her. He sat in silence, mouth slightly agape, eyes darting across her face.

“You always knew I tried to do the right thing,” She says quietly, “You always trusted my judgement. Except then…and that broke my heart, Alistair.

“I have always done right by you,” Her voice cracks and a new wave of tears began to spill down her cheeks. Alistair remains silent, staring at her, “And I would never have hurt you.”

The silence in the room is deafening. She stands there, waiting for Alistair to say something. He clears his throat, shifting to stand from the chair. He towers over her, as he always has, and stands uncomfortably close. So close she can feel the heat radiating off of his body. She closes her eyes and basks in it for a moment, memories of that heat skirting on the edges of her mind.

Finally, he speaks,

“I…you chose Loghain.”

Lyna promptly turns and leaves the tavern, ignoring him as he calls her name.


	4. Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s almost offended at his assumption of her feelings, but he’s not entirely wrong. What she has trouble voicing aloud to him is that yes, she does still love Alistair, but she loved that Alistair, her cheery, boyish, fumbling Warden Alistair. This Alistair, the cynical, drunk, self-pitying man is not hers.

Lyna cannot wait to get away from this Creator-forsaken city.

Three days after her dispute with Alistair, _Desire’s Demon_ still moored in the harbor. The captain had reassured her that it was a quick foray in Kirkwall and that they’d be departing the following day. Regardless, she finds that these have been the longest three days of her life.

She stays cooped up in the cabin the whole time, never finding the courage to leave the safety of the ship. The first day, her companions urged her to explore the city with them, but she refused. Lyna didn’t want anything to do with this place. Knowing Alistair was still so close and didn’t want to see her, didn’t _believe_ her, left a painful ache in her chest. After her initial refusal, they’d stopped begging. Nathaniel was kind enough to bring her meals and not prod.

Lyna replays the conversation in her head a million times. What else could she have said to make him understand? She told only the truth, spoke only of her – _their_ – duty as Wardens to make the most difficult of decisions in the hardest of situations. That was their purpose and Alistair knew that just as well as she did. She understood why it felt like such a personal blow to him: Duncan had been a close friend, a father figure to him and Loghain’s betrayal directly resulted in Duncan’s death. But they were Wardens and they could not afford to hold grudges. They couldn’t truly afford to hold onto anything.

In the end, Loghain hadn’t been a nightmare to work with. He had taken his punishment with the cold acceptance she’d expected and respected her command. He lived up to his famed war stories and she’d felt more confident fighting by his side than without. She hadn’t been sorry to see him perish, knowing it was either her life or his, but she’d been appreciative of his sacrifice.

She continues to mull over Alistair’s reaction to her appearance in Kirkwall. His cruel disbelief, so unlike the boyish Warden she fell so deeply in love with amidst absolute chaos. Had what she done really been that offensive? Maybe it was the last five years of her life speaking, the hardness of her lifestyle that didn’t have time for such sentiment. Had she really grown so cold? After the loss she’s suffered, how could she be anything else?

Lyna sighs, kicking over an empty bucket as she paces the cargo hold of the ship. She’d avoided daylight for so long, the darkness starts to make her skin prickle. Without much more thought, she escapes through the hatch leading to the outside world and squints into the harsh sunshine.

The docks look the same as they had three days ago: bustling, frenetic, and alive. Her pointed ears pick up an off-key sailors song in the distance and the bawdy tune tugs a smile at the corner of her mouth. Dogs bark and fishwives laugh and she welcomes the bright, briny chaos of it all.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up!” Lyna turns to the captain, arms over his chest and a friendly grin stretching across his weathered face. He’d been a kind man – something she’d been utterly surprised by – who was happy to tell his sailing stories to a new audience.

“Figured I’d better walk on even land while I can,” Lyna returns his smile, shrugging, and he chortles at the quip.

“Best be back by sundown, we’ll set off then.” He waves her off, winking, “Best be sure you’ve got everything you need from here.”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

She turns and walks into the fray.

~*~*~*~

Lyna is not sure how she navigates it, but she miraculously finds her way back to Anders’ clinic in Darktown. She’d made it with minimal heckling, a surprise in its own right, and been mostly ignored. She finds that for early afternoon, the clinic is shockingly quiet. Anders is only taking inventory when she makes her quiet approach, she thought him distracted enough not to notice her presence when he speaks:

“Leaving already?” He asks in a friendly tone, his back to her as he counts items in a tall cabinet, but Lyna already knows where this conversation is going.

“As I’m sure you recall, the Warden lifestyle is a demanding one,” She says briskly, unwilling to rise to the carefully concealed bait, “I’ve got a keep to run.”

“I’m sure you do.” He hasn’t turned to face her yet, but she can feel him roll his eyes. Lyna hadn’t minded Anders as a person, but he’d gotten under her skin as a Warden. There was something about Circle mages and their unwillingness to take orders or respect authority that irritated her.

She shifts awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of whether to approach him further or if he is dismissing her.

“You can at least help if you’re going to dither around like that.” He breaks the momentarily silence, examining a smudged label on a bottle, trying to discern its contents. She stops her fidgeting and gladly accepts the offer of distraction with a quick nod.

“Sweep up that hair over there.” Anders instructs, motioning vaguely to a pile of hair collected around a wooden chair. She raises her eyebrows in surprise, but finds a weathered broom and sets about the task.

“Didn’t know you were a barber, too.” She quips and Anders’ mouth curls into a sly smile, bordering on mocking.

“I am a man of many talents.”

They remain quiet for a few moments, lulled by the steady rhythm of Lyna’s sweeping and punctuated by the clatter of glass as Anders rearranges the cabinet. She finds that she misses these small, calm moments with Anders. It was not uncommon for her to visit him in the infirmary at Vigil’s Keep and help with some menial task after a long day of diplomacy and training.

And because she knows Anders can’t just _mind his own bloody business_ , he breaks the silence again,

“Have you spoken to him again?”

Lyna’s spine stiffens and her sweeping stops at the inquiry. She has half a mind to play dumb and ask who he means, but remembers her dignity and mulls over how best to convey that she doesn’t want to have this conversation.

“No.” She says shortly, resuming her sweeping with greater vigor.

“Will you before you leave?”

“ _No_.”

Anders was never one deterred from rudeness.

“You should.” He implores, but his tone still carries a mock casualness that only further infuriates her.

“Well, I’m not.” She says as stoutly as she can manage.

She sees him turn out of her peripheral vision and she feels her body tense for the oncoming battle. Her sweeping stops and her hands tighten around the broomstick, trying to breathe through the irritation piquing in her veins.

“You need to clear this up with him.” Anders says, crossing his arms in front of him and fixing a stern gaze on her. Lyna doesn’t look at him, but rather the pile of hair she has swept up on the ground.

“No, I don’t.” Anders sighs at her denial.

“ _Yes_ , you do.”

“I fail to see where this concerns you.” She bites back, the venom easier to bear than the thought of facing Alistair again.

And that was what it all came down to, wasn’t? She was afraid to talk to Alistair again, and she was even more afraid of his rejection.

Lost in her thoughts, Lyna doesn’t even realize Anders is now in front of her until he puts his hands on her arms and waits until she meets his eyes.

“You can’t come all this way and not clear this up, Lyna.” He says quietly, “If you loved him like I thought you did, you’d fight harder.”

She’s almost offended at his assumption of her feelings, but he’s not entirely wrong. What she has trouble voicing aloud to him is that _yes_ , she does still love Alistair, but she loved that Alistair, her cheery, boyish, fumbling Warden Alistair. This Alistair, the cynical, drunk, self-pitying man is not hers.

“And you’re also afraid he thinks the same about you.” Lyna stares up at Anders with wide eyes, almost horrified that she’s spoken her thoughts aloud, but more so that she could be transparent enough for him to understand what she has not said.

“I am not who he fell in love with.” She says quietly.

Anders searches her face in a way she finds so thorough that it is almost invasive. After what feels like hours, he finally offers her a small smile and, to her absolute surprise, kisses her forehead.

“Then maybe there is something about this Lyna that _that_ Alistair can love.”

Anders puts his hands on her shoulders and gently pushes her towards the door.

“Go,” He urges, “Don’t let him get away again.”

~*~*~*~

He is not at The Hanged Man.

Lyna curses as the barman shakes his head at her.

“Glad he’s gone, the lout.” He says, satisfied that his frequent patron has not returned.

“Did he say where he was going?” She asked, nails tapping the bar in a frantic rhythm. The barman looks pointedly at her hands until she stops the fidget and he shrugs.

“No, and I don’t care.” Lyna sighs, halfway considering admonishing the barman that it is terrible business sense to wish customers away.

Defeated, Lyna leaves the tavern and trudges through Lowtown. A few beggars taunt her from the alleyways, but she barely hears the racist slurs anymore. She is fed up with this city and can’t wait to get home to her keep where she can lay in bed for a few days and try to forget this whole trip. After a good private cry, she’ll bury herself in her duties as she has for years. But for now, she just wants to board the ship and get away from his Creator-forsaken place.

By the time Lyna makes it back to the docks, it is just before sundown and she is silently pleased that it didn’t take her too long to navigate the way back from the tavern. _Desire’s Demon_ is finally in view when Lyna sees the familiar figure sitting on a barrel on the docks.

She stops dead in her tracks and briefly considers running, but he sees her before she can bolt and shoots up suddenly from his seat. Her continued hesitation is only due to the fact that he looks so _different_ – but different in a familiar way. Alistair’s hair has been cut down to the same short length as it was during the Blight and his facial hair has been trimmed to a close-cropped beard. His clothes look washed, or rather, newly purchased. He is a completely different man from who she argued with in the pub and Lyna almost rubs her eyes to make sure she is not hallucinating. He is not entirely the same as her old Alistair, but rather a clean version of a new one.

Lyna takes a few hesitant steps towards him, a wild halla caught in a hunter’s gaze. He gives her what she thinks is an encouraging twitch of the lips and his hand comes up to grasp the back of his neck. Her heart stutters at the old habit.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” She says finally, stopping a few feet from him. He sighs and twists his mouth into a wry ghost of a smile.

“Begging for your forgiveness?” He asks more than states. Although she knows he is trying to sway her with humor, Lyna is still on edge, disbelieving of his sincerity, not accepting that excuse of an apology.

“You left me.” Is all she says and she watches him deflate from the quiet accusation.

“Lyna-”

“No, it’s my turn,” She barges ahead, needing him to understand, “You left me. As my Warden partner and as my - my _Alistair_.

“I trusted you to – to have faith in me. After all we’d been through, all the decisions I made – you supported me in every one. Even when I didn’t feel confident in my choice, you were there to back me up.” She felt the words choke in her throat as she thought about her next grievance and the tears pricked at the corners of her eyes against her will. She saw the minute twitch of his hands, and the thought that he might try to comfort her – _touch_ her – made her shake her head.

“The worst part,” Her voice trembled and she could feel the vestiges of panic, true fear felt so many years ago, grip at her throat. Still, she forged ahead, “The worst part is that I went into almost certain death alone.”

Lyna saw the exact moment where Alistair seemed to realize this, for his face crumpled in unmistakable guilt. The triumph she felt was only bitter.

“You left me to fight an Archdemon _alone_. How can I forgive that?”

The tears are making hot tracks down her face and she abstractly hopes none of her companions can see her from the ship. She rubs a hand roughly across her cheeks, drying away the wetness as best she can.

“I faced it alone. And, after learning about the sacrifice thing, I was glad you weren’t there, but…I just – I needed you,” She tries desperately to explain the confusing dichotomy of wanting Alistair by her side, as he had been for the whole journey, but finding a little solace in that he wouldn’t be facing death with her, “On the most selfish level you can imagine, I wanted you with me. I needed you to tell me it would be all right because I was _so scared_ , Alistair. I can’t even begin to describe how terrified I was, even after all we’d been through to get there.”

They stand in a charged silence for several moments before Lyna can even bring herself to look at him again. When she does, she finds that he, too, is roughly rubbing the wet tracks from his cheeks. And as victorious as she feels and finally making him understand a fraction of what she went through, her heart throbs at the thought of hurting him.

She deflates, her anger fading away into emotional exhaustion. She’s been hanging onto these words and feelings for years and to finally let them out has left her sapped. Lyna doesn’t feel lighter, but rather drained from the upheaval of not only the last three days, but last half a decade, too.

“I don’t want to fight you anymore,” She says quietly, sighing so heavily her shoulders sag. Alistair’s eyes search her face and he nods in agreement.

“Lyna,” His voice catches and he clears his throat, giving another rough swipe at his eyes, “I- I cannot begin to apologize enough to you.

“I know that I was wrong. I knew the second I left the Landsmeet that I was wrong, but I was just so hurt that you could have made that decision.” Lyna closes her eyes in defeat, but Alistair continues on, “But I know that you did it for the right reasons and I let my grudge get the best of me. I should have supported you like I always did.”

She opens her eyes and he is very close to her now. Lyna can feel his breath fanning her cheeks and her eyes hungrily search his face, seeing his open honesty.

“I left you when you needed me most,” He continues, voice barely above a whisper and his brow creases as he clenches his eyes shut as though swallowing a bitter pill, “If you can never forgive me for that, I understand.”

Lyna remains silent, mind whirring with everything he has said and everything that has happened in the last few days. She is caught between her pride, her pain, and what her heart shouts at her to do. Alistair sighs, taking her quietness as denial and backs away from her.

For whatever reason, the sight of Alistair withdrawing sends her into a panic. She is not ready for him to leave, not ready to call this over. She cannot voice the word _stop_ , but darts her eyes about, grasping at something to say. Her eyes land on an old, worn leather pack leaning against the barrel she had found him sitting upon.

_He withdraws a single, red rose from his leather pack, blushing almost the same color._

_“For you,” he says shyly and her heart flutters._

The memory strikes her so suddenly, she almost staggers from it. She would recognize that leather bag anywhere...and the realization dawns on her why it is here.

Alistair is trying to come home.

She swallows, fighting the lump in her throat that has suddenly appeared. He leans down to gather up his bag and she quickly blurts the first thing she can think to say,

“I’m still in need of Wardens.”

Alistair freezes, processing her words before he turns slowly. She can see him working out her meaning in his head, worried that it is some verbal trap.

“…you do?” He finally ventures, unable to parse any double meaning in the statement. She meets his eyes, those _radiant_ brown eyes, and has to fight the flood of memories seeing them conjures up.

Lyna nods, allowing a tentative smile to curl at the edge of her mouth. He grins at the sight, and she is struck by the boyish enthusiasm that she remembers.

She knows that she will never quite forget the Landsmeet and the mistakes that either of them made. She knows that neither of them are the same people as they had been half a decade ago. But, whoever she is now thinks that she could fall in love with whoever he is now.

“Would you like to come to Vigil’s Keep?” She asks and his entire face brightens.

_There he is…there’s my Alistair._

“Commander, it would be my honor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. Hope you all enjoyed it!


End file.
